


The Queensberry Tree

by Ashling



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Crossover, Dealing with In-Law(s), F/F, Family, Future Arranged Spouses are Forbidden To Meet But Able To Study One Another's Hobbies, Golden Age (Narnia), Lesbian Sansa Stark, Lesbian Susan Pevensie, Post-Canon for Game of Thrones, Self-Indulgent, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-20 00:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: Sansa's been utterly responsible and utterly cautious for four years. Now it's time to take a chance.





	The Queensberry Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Artemis1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/gifts).



Though its borders were stable, Westeros was not at peace. Often, Sansa thought that perhaps it could never be completely at peace, that its own nature wouldn’t allow it.

To the north, Jon was struggling to grow the fragments of former wildling tribes into a flourishing society under the cruel winds of winter. To the east, the mysterious foreign country of Narnia unsettled everyone by sending ships with unnervingly pleasant lords offering friendship but refusing to divulge where the country exactly was or what it wanted. To the south, rumors swirled that the newly constructed Great Sept of Bran might not be enough to save the King from the Faith of the Seven, whose fiery new High Septon didn’t approve of a King that warged, saw the future, and (most importantly) said all the right things with no respect for the High Septon in his eyes. And to the west, trade all along the coast and with the Iron Islands was badly damaged by the appearance of a mysterious green sea serpent whose primary source of amusement seemed to be strangling ships in its heavy coils and eating sailors like so many grapes plucked off a vine.

Even Sansa’s usual refuge, her study, had been invaded by a letter that she would have rather eaten than read. But for one precious hour, she could block out everything else, and be content. Her idea of peace was one that few others shared, but it suited her well.

She contentedly swam through piles of reports, figures, and her own notes, slowly and patiently piecing together a new winter plan. It was the kind of work that only half a dozen other living rulers could do as well as she did, and none better. She found it as soothing as it was engrossing.

Having spent the past four years as the Queen of Winterfell, she had a decent idea of what most details would be, the same way a farmer who knows his land can give a rough estimate of how much seed he needs to buy, when he ought to plant it, and how much profit he can expect from the harvest. And while she was careful to double-check her own assumptions, even this rote precaution felt pleasant, because with each confirmation she felt certainty settling around her like a protective cloak: Winterfell and the North would survive, and with a bit left over. She felt the tension in her shoulders easing.

Earlier in the week, the Maesters had taken back their earlier prediction that spring would come in six months, and instead offered a tentative prediction that spring would take possibly nine months to appear, possibly an entire year, but no more than that. This was not yet official, but word had gotten to Sansa, as word tended to do, sometimes with a nudge from Bran and sometimes from sources all her own. So it was a great relief to find that all the padding and safeguards that she had built into her numbers actually served well enough that she could announce, as soon as the Maesters made their predictions public, that the North wouldn’t suffer much from it. They would tighten their belts by a notch, and go on. That was the Northern way. Sansa was at peace with it.

Had this happened in her first or even second year of being queen, she would have fretted and asked two maesters to triple-check her work and gone to sleep thinking resentfully, bitterly, of how much she wanted to give the North abundance and how much rot they all got instead. But now that she knew the job better, she knew the limits of her own power. She’d given the North years of relative peace, when before there had been years of war, and she’d kept such meticulous watch over their resources that she’d been able to guide the country through winter with relatively small losses. It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t self-evidently life-saving, and as often as not, she got more complaints than thanks, but she felt sure that her work brought a sense of stability to the country, which was what it needed most. So instead of fretting, Sansa merely finished up, wrote herself a short statement to make at her weekly public council, and asked a maid to bring two mugs of mulled wine and Rickon to her room.

Fifteen minutes later, Sansa was perched on her bed, cross-legged, and Rickon was curled up on a rug before the fire. She was running through the political ramifications of the extended winter out loud, and he was playing with a pair of black and white puppies that couldn’t have been older than a month. At seventeen now, he was as gangly as ever and had the same clumsy charm as the puppies themselves. Sansa wasn’t quite sure if he was listening to her, but she was used to that. Rickon never spoke, even on the rare occasion that they visited Jon, but she felt that their one-sided conversations were worth the effort, so she tried to have a night like this at least once a week. Two was a small number, but any gathering of living Starks was a good thing. And at this rate, he needed to learn some of this, because he was going to be her heir.

Sansa broke off mid-monologue, stifled a sigh, and took a sip of her mulled wine. She had hoped that once Rickon experienced some peace, he would change, but after five or six years of this, that hope was dead. In Rickon’s defense, it was hardly his fault. Apparently he’d been kept in very good condition by Ramsay, who, Sansa suspected, had been saving him for some particularly imaginative variation on public torture and execution when he knew there were other Starks within view. But good condition or no, Rickon had been kept in the dungeons. So he heard things, and he saw things, and by the time he was back safe at home, he’d stopped talking entirely.

It wasn’t his muteness that made Sansa doubt his ability to lead, but everything that had changed about him at the same time. He disliked meeting new people, showed very little interest that in anything that wasn’t animals, and loathed all forms of weapons and battle, including archery practiced against stuffed straw targets. Even in a long and prosperous summer, with Northern independence intact and Bran miraculously keeping the southern lands from going at each other, Rickon would be disastrous as a king. He didn’t have a drop of malice in him, but a benevolently incompetent king, Sansa knew, could sometimes be as bad as a maliciously capable one.

She could try to name his children as her heir, but young man though he was, he seemed to show no interest in girls, or boys either. And after everything he’d been through, she knew it would be unacceptably cruel to leave heir-making up to him.

Her other siblings were equally unhelpful. Arya had last sent her a letter more than a year ago not even mentioning what country she was in, and couldn’t be located, much less depended on to return. Jon was nominally celibate in the Watch, and whatever selfish, wild hope Sansa had that Jon might have a bastard was now dead. It had died during her first visit to the wall, when she’d spotted him talking close with that red-headed wildling. (She’d joked to Tormund, later, that she feared his taste was declining, for she’d have had Brienne a thousand times before Jon; he’d roared laughter in reply and then she’d drunk him under the table, only to be astonishingly outpaced in turn by a pinch-faced, tow-headed recruit from the Stormlands, which had been embarrassing.)

The Starks were doing well, as well as anyone could expect after they’d all nearly been killed a dozen times over. But a family had to sustain itself or die out. And Sansa had no intention of letting hers die out.

“Are you sure?” she said aloud.

Rickon looked up with an inquisitive sound in the back of his throat, one puppy held aloft in his left hand and the other one worrying his ear with its tiny white teeth.

“Are you sure you’ll never be married?”

Rickon nodded. He didn’t look a bit anxious about it, which gave her a bittersweet pang. Being trusted like that was a thing that made her proud, though it also left her lonely, for she had no one in Winterfell to trust in quite the same way. Rickon simply expected, as everyone else at Winterfell had come to expect, that Sansa would treat him fairly. That her solutions to problems were often unpleasant, but never cruel.

Sansa would rather be dethroned than disappoint Rickon on that score. And she’d rather be beheaded than dethroned. So after they’d gone down to the kennels and returned the puppies to a grumbling but indulgent master of hounds, and after she’d seen Rickon to bed, she returned to her study and opened that dreaded letter.

Though she didn’t want to, she read it three times, very carefully. She didn’t learn anything from it; it only confirmed what she already knew. Robin Arryn couldn’t write well, so he had someone else writing for him who also couldn’t write well, but could sprinkle in “heretofore” every now and then. He clumsily hinted that Sansa was widely considered the most eligible royal woman available, and getting rather old. And Robin considered it only right that he marry the most eligible royal woman available. Although he didn’t include this in his letter, she strongly suspected that he felt himself entitled to it, after what his mother had told him, so many years ago.

Like being presented with a half-rotted mouse, that letter.

“If only,” Sansa said to her mug, “Lyanna would let me fucking adopt her.”

She could hear Lyanna even now: “From this day to my last day, I am a Mormont!”

“See how long that lasts, you only daughter,” she replied, in her head.

“From this day to my—”

“Oh, shut up.”

Some time later, Sansa put the letter into the fireplace, where the glowing embers set it alight. She watched the letter burn to ashes, and then and went to bed.

That night, Sansa dreamed of her mother and father. It was one of her favorite memories.

In it, she was trying to figure out whether or not her mother in was in a good enough mood to let her buy a blue ribbon from a traveling salesman with wagon full of trinkets. Peeking into her mother’s room, Sansa saw Catelyn sitting in a chair with Rickon asleep in a cradle that she was rocking with her foot. Ned was talking to her, rambling a little, on about grownup things that Sansa had not then cared about. They both looked very tired, and Ned was clearly in need of a bath.

Sansa, still not sure if this was the moment to ask after her ribbon, hesitated. And then, though Catelyn had said nothing, Ned got up and began rummaging about the drawer in Catelyn’s little side table. Sansa forgot all about the ribbon. Ned moved his chair behind Catelyn’s, wiped his hands on his own shirtfront, and then began to comb her hair. It couldn’t have been the first time he’d done this, either. He knew to start by combing a small section of hair at the bottom, and then, once that was free of tangles, to comb increasingly long sections of hair until he was able to run the comb from Catelyn’s scalp to the ends of her hair. But even then, when her hair was smooth, he kept going. Slowly, and gently, and Sansa saw her mother close her eyes.

Ned was still talking about incredibly boring things, and Catelyn was still pinch-faced in her weariness, and they were both wearing the most unromantic clothes possible, he in dirtied, stained, practical greys and browns, and she in a dull green dress that had been considerably let out with a panel of mismatched green cloth to accommodate her pregnant belly. His voice was very quiet and steady. Every now and then, Catelyn’s voice chimed in, adding a few words of advice. Sansa wanted to cry, but she didn’t.

She was just about to nudge the door shut and creep away, when suddenly there was a creature beside her. It golden, and catlike, and nearly as big as a horse. From its fur came a soft golden glow, and its eyes looked grave and wise.

Her mother had said something. She turned back. Now somehow the door was wide open and both her parents were looking at her and the creature with a mixture of fondness and amusement, as if they were in one some joke that she’d soon learn too, and then they could all laugh at it together.

When she looked at the creature, suddenly the walls lifted and she was standing in darkness, with the creature’s fur as the only light. It stepped forward and breathed out. Its teeth with startlingly white and sharp; its breath was unexpectedly sweet. It turned slowly and began to walk away. And Sansa followed it, unsure of where she was going, but completely content.

Sansa woke to the sound of someone stirring in her room. Before she was even fully conscious, she sensed that something was strange in it. Any maid or advisor would knock before entering, or at least say her name. So before her eyes even opened, her right hand was sliding beneath her pillow.

“Do you always have a drink before bed? Gods, you’re turning into such an old woman,” said a voice that sounded terribly like...

Sansa opened her eyes, and discovered that it was indeed Arya.

“Were you planning on slitting my throat?” Arya said.

“No.” Sansa put the knife back and sat up, squinting to make sense of Arya in the watery light of early dawn.

From what she could make out, Arya was significantly taller than before, wore her hair in one short braid, and was dressed in some sort of outlandish but practical leather armor. She was standing by Sansa’s table, just putting down the empty mug after giving it one last pointed sniff.

“Why not?” said Arya.

“What?” said Sansa.

She resisted the urge to rub her eyes. She was enormously glad to see her sister, but also, how early in the morning was this? It was like they were children all over again, Arya asking strange questions. Not that the questions now were particularly bad, just that, oh, Sansa had thought that her sister was halfway around the world by now and never coming back. Or dead.

“Why wouldn’t you slit my throat?”

“You’d be facing me if you were attacking me, and throat-slitting is something you do when you’re standing behind,” Sansa said. She sounded grumpy and young to her own ears, and she knew she was being grumpy because she was bewildered, and that was making her even grumpier.

“Hm,” said Arya. “You still need better guards.”

“I’ll never have guards good enough,” said Sansa, standing up.

“Not with that—” Arya stumbled back half a step. Sansa was still taller, and when she walked fast she could gather a lot of momentum. She hugged like it was a standing tackle.

“—attitude,” Arya mumbled into Sansa’s shoulder.

“I am so angry with you,” Sansa said. She squeezed tighter, and inhaled. Arya smelled strongly of something that was vaguely like saddle polish.

Arya squeezed back. “I figured,” she said, and then, “I’m starving.”

Usually Sansa had her breakfast out in the hall, with a maester or a guardsman or a servant or a bannerman or an emissary or a supplicant or anybody, really, talking to her while she ate. She liked to get two things done at once and she liked to be seen up and at work as early as possible. But today, she asked for the food to be sent to her room.

For Sansa, it was a soft-boiled egg, a slice of toast to sop it up, and a piece of cured ham. For Arya, two soft-boiled eggs, five rashers of bacon, toast drizzled with honey, and one of Arya’s childhood favorites, whitebait, tiny fried fish no longer than her little finger that made a fantastic crunch when she bit into them. Sansa heard the sound and was immediately reminded of Arya as a girl, annoyed at Sansa for some reason, biting down hard on her whitebait and maintaining eye contact. The thought made her smile.

“No lemon cakes?” said Arya through a big mouthful. She glanced pointedly at Sansa’s plate.

“It’s winter.”

Exasperated: “You’re the Queen.”

“Exactly. I’m the Queen.” Sansa looked at Arya’s plate. Already half the pile of whitebait, one egg, and three rashers of bacon had disappeared. Sansa speared her ham with her knife and put it on Arya’s plate.

“I—”

“I’m the Queen, and you’re thin.”

“And you’re turning into Mother.”

“Could be worse,” said Sansa. “And for all I know, this could be my last chance to feed you.”

“Fine.” Arya speared her honeyed toast with her knife and put it on Sansa’s plate. “You’re the one with the sweet tooth, anyways.”

They finished eating in a strangely comfortable mix of grumpiness and pleasure. Neither of them had gotten half enough sleep, and both of them were surprised at just how good it was to be in the company of someone who was trustworthy and completely known, family and equal.

“You should stay,” said Sansa, when they’d finished. She knew that it was a concession to Arya, that it was in some way letting Arya ‘win’, to ask her so baldly, but at this point, she wanted Arya to stay so much that she didn’t care. “Stay till spring makes traveling easier again, Or at least go further north and poke around the wilderness with Jon. You don’t need to go a thousand leagues to find dangerous and strange things. Believe me, things are still as dangerous around here as ever.”

“No, they’re not,” said Arya.

“Well, it takes a lot of work to keep it that way. And the work itself is dangerous.”

“Anyone in particular?” said Arya, in a voice of such studied disinterest that it was rather a mockery of itself.

“No,” said Sansa sternly. After becoming Queen, and in the course of such a long winter, and during the aftermath of so much death and destruction, of course there had been several waves of discontent and even the occasional attempt to dethrone her. But she prided herself that she had been able to weather those winds with minimal bloodshed, and while there remained a few thorns in her side, she much preferred to deal with those in her own velvet-gloved way. No assassination.

“All right,” said Arya. And then, offhandedly: “I didn’t think so.”

Which made Sansa proud.

“Can you at least see Rickon before you go?” she said.

“How long I stay depends on you, actually,” said Arya. By dint of talking without regard to what was in her mouth, she’d cleared her plate, and now leaned back with an expression of satisfaction that reminded Sansa of their father, after dinner, about to discuss something with one of his bannermen.

“In that case, you can have the room one door down from Rickon’s,” said Sansa.

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

“I’m twenty-five, and who knows. I might still change my mind. I might have you thrown out of Winterfell. Or I might have you clapped in leg irons to keep you from going. Where have you been?”

“Eat your toast.”

Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes and bit down. The honey burst sweetness into her mouth, and she licked her fingers so she wouldn’t miss a drop of it. Nobody was around, and she so rarely had anything sweet in winter. And Arya, Arya didn’t care for table manners.

Arya burped. And then, before Sansa could react, said: “I’ve been in Narnia.”

Now it was Sansa’s turn to talk with a full mouth. “I thought you were going west of Westeros.”

“I did. Narnia is west.”

“Then why are all their ships coming from the Narrow Sea?”

Arya waved her hand. “There was business with a Red Witch, two years back. Made a rift in the worlds, gap the size of a castle courtyard, like a bridge between oceans.”

Sansa wanted to question the strange tale, but after all she’d seen, this didn’t seem impossible. In fact, after Melisandre, this wasn’t even the first red witch she’d ever heard of.

“So that’s why nobody can find where the island is,” Sansa said. “Is it true they’ve trained crows to talk?”

“No,” said Arya, “the Talking Crows teach their own young how to talk almost as soon as they’re out of the egg. Actually, most of the Narnians are animals. Better than people. And Narnia’s not an island, it’s got land on three sides.”

Sansa could tell from the expression on Arya’s face that Sansa’s own expression must be less than perfectly disinterested.

She gave up on pretending. “You’ve seen them talk?”

“They’re the most fun,” said Arya. “Them and dwarves.”

“What about the Narnian people?”

“There aren’t any Narnian people, really,” said Arya.

“But the lord who brought gifts to Bran when the ships first came. Peridan. He had a ship crewed entirely by people.” Though, come to think of it, he had been accompanied by a handful of rather exotic and well-trained pets.

“Dan’s all right, but he was born on the Lone Islands, so he’s not Narnian by birth. None of them are, not even the kings and queens. Aslan likes to have humans ruling, and the White Witch had all the humans killed for a hundred years, so they’ve had to import.”

“Aslan?”

“He’s their favorite god, except they also claim he’s not a god, he’s a lion.”

“A lion?”

“Big yellow cat, very dangerous. Please don’t make me recite a history lesson. Lu will do a better job of it anyway.”

“Who?”

“Queen Lucy the Valiant, first of her name, one of the four Kings and Queens of Narnia, with retainers, courtiers, diplomats, soldiers, handmaidens, and all that. She’ll be here in a couple days. And Ed. I told them I’d make introductions.”

“How many is that?”

“Thirty, not counting the animals. I think.”

“We’re in winter,” said Sansa slowly, her thoughts going at a gallop. “If we have to give hospitality to thirty people and a queen, and they stay for—”

“Relax,” said Arya. “They want an alliance, so they’re trying to make a good impression. They’re bringing presents.”

Mentally Sansa was already paying a half dozen people to come in and help. Probably she’d have to pay a little extra to tavern owners if she wanted to steal their cooks. She didn’t appreciate being told to relax.

“I don’t have any gifts to give them in return,” said Sansa, through her teeth.

“Better go make some.”

After half an hour of whisking about the castle, planning, Sansa assembled everyone from Maester Wolkan to her head cook, Frome. She ordered Arya to show up, and when Arya didn’t, Sansa hunted her down and found her telling Rickon a story about killing a giant. It was, in its own way, sweet. Rickon was so pleased to have Arya back that he was listening very intently to a story that, coming from any other person, would make him get up and walk away.

Once Sansa dragged her to the meeting, Arya became very helpful very quickly, because she wanted to escape the ordeal of talking about logistics. Once she did that, the situation didn’t appear quite so dire. Though there were exactly thirty-two people aboard the Silver Swan, more than half of those were left behind with the ship. Though Arya didn’t say why, Sansa gathered this was to keep their ship from being stolen, which was probably wise. White Harbor wasn’t lawless, but the temptation of a royal galleon left unguarded was probably too much for some sailors to bear.

They intended to stay for a week, and they bore with them an offer of diplomatic relations. Arya hadn’t taken tally of what gifts they brought, because she wasn’t interested in it in the slightest, but from her time roaming around the ship, she’d seen a lot of food, she said, and a lot of barrels generally. More than they needed for so short a trip.

Sansa was deeply tempted to ask after the logistics of one journey between White Harbor and Narnia, but the imminence of her guests made her stick to the point. It was a pretty sleepless two days she spent, getting the castle in order, sending out invitations to key Northern bannermen and lords, and strategizing what trade and diplomatic points she’d want most to negotiate for when the time came. Often, she found herself agonizing over her need to show proper hospitality to these consequential (and, according to Arya, worthwhile) guests, and her personal annoyance at upending her own frugal plans.

The one thing that gave those days flavor, aside from curiosity about the Narnians, was Arya. Sansa quickly realized that Arya was best left to roam about as she pleased, and would come to talk with or merely exist in the same room as her siblings when she felt like it. Arya realized just as quickly that as long as she told Sansa everything she needed to know about the Narnians, Sansa was fine to take care of everything herself. Certainly Sansa grew tired and snappish, and Arya never took a snappy remark lying down, and they argued over how to raise up Rickon, and they each made personal questions and were annoyed by each other’s personal questions, and Sansa envied Arya her freedom while Arya envied Sansa the Northerners’ respect.

But at the end of the day, they were together. Usually in Sansa’s room, with Rickon and his puppies. Arya told tales of nymphs she’d swum with and kings she’d contemplated killing (only contemplated, because whenever she got too close to gore, Sansa would give her a warning look and nod in Rickon’s direction). Sometimes they’d reminisce a little about their childhood, and they avoided talking about the future entirely. Rickon would start snoring by the fire with the puppies on his chest while Sansa and Arya sipped their mulled wine and said nothing at all. And that was happiness.

By the time the Narnians arrived late in the evening of the second day, Sansa wished they’d taken longer. No amount of curiosity fulfilled or diplomatic advantages established could make up for Arya going, as Sansa sensed she would, when the Narnian ship did. Apparently there were lands to the west of Narnia as intriguing to Arya now as the lands west of Westeros had been. Sansa knew better than to argue against it.

So it was with a sense of melancholy that she stood on the wall and observed the Narnians coming down the road towards the castle. Arya had disappeared hours before, but Rickon was there, looking mildly uncomfortable in his second-best clothes (Sansa having reserved the best for banquet night.)

“You’ll have to put it back before they get here,” Sansa said to him.

Rickon put a protective hand on the puppy half-hanging out the neck of his tunic.

“They’ll be tired from travel. Introductions won’t take long.”

He sighed.

The Narnian Queen and King were visible at once by the beautiful horses they rode, horses significantly larger than average, while their attendants rode on the backs of common horse or in wagons, of which there were five. The Narnians were a strange sight, with their vivid foreign clothes in yellow and green and blue and crimson, especially when matched with the distinctly workmanlike nature of the wooden wagons, which they’d probably gotten in White Harbor. Promisingly, those wagons were piled with packages and barrels.

Sansa watched for as long as she could, trying to make out how they interacted. But all she learned was that there appeared to be nearly as many women as men; that two of the women looked as though they were from the south of Dorne; that there were nine animals which could be Talking ones, including the two horses, a wolf, a raven, and five hunting hounds; that perhaps the older man with the grey-streaked hair and neat beard was Peridan; and, as they drew very close, that King Edmund was capable of making his sister laugh, and vice versa.

All well and good. But as Sansa made her way down to the courtyard with Rickon close behind, she gave Dirk instructions to have the wagons led well into the center of the courtyard. On the chance those barrels held anything akin to wildfire, she didn’t want them anywhere near her castle walls.

The meeting, it turned out, was as brief and easy as even Rickon could have hoped. Up close, Queen Lucy was bright-eyed and good-natured, and she spotted Sansa at once with a smile. Despite the muck of travel, with her golden hair and her sunny expression and her youth (Lucy couldn’t have been older than twenty), she looked fresh. Though King Edmund (dark-haired, freckled, with an occasional wryness) was also friendly, Sansa noticed that he looked around at his surroundings when he could do it without rudeness, while Lucy unwaveringly looked at the people before her. On the Narnians’ side, Lord Peridan introduced a dozen lords and ladies in addition to the royals, while Sansa, not to be outdone, had her head of the guards, two members of her council, and a handful of notable Northerners with her, with Maester Wolkan doing the introductions.

While the Northerners were being introduced, the Narnians were all politeness, but when the many titles of the Narnians (and, it turned out, Archenlanders) were being dutifully read by Lord Peridan, Sansa caught Lucy giving Rickon a little, apologetic sort of smile, and Rickon smiling shyly back.

When introductions were over, Sansa suggested that they be settled in their rooms, as they must all be tired after their long journey, and so on. Lucy at once agreed, though she first gave Sansa a book as a particular gift from her sister Queen Susan, with more gifts to be presented officially on the morrow from her brother the High King Peter.

The book turned out to be a history of Narnia, complete with a beautifully illustrated fold-out map, and Sansa pored over it late into the night.

At some point, Arya knocked on the door, stuck her head in, and said, “It’s wine or oil.”

“Are you sure?” Sansa said.

“I smelled them, and I know what wildfire smells like, and that’s not it.”

“Thanks.”

Arya closed the door. Sansa finished her book and then slept soundly.

The next morning, the Narnians slept in well, which Sansa had expected. Over an early lunch, Lucy and Edmund talked well of the weather, of Winterfell’s imposing structure, of the journey, and of Sansa’s hospitality, and it wasn’t until the food was gone that they got down to anything interesting. By then, Arya had showed up, and Sansa sensed that while she didn’t outright dislike Lucy, she didn’t like talking to her half as much as she liked talking to Edmund, who Arya bullied nearly as much as a brother and who took it all very easily. They seemed familiar and at ease with each other, and Edmund did mention something about Arya killing a giant that gave Sansa a pang of unexpectedly jealousy.

“Could we get anything for your animals?” Sansa finally said, once the food began to set in and people’s tongues slowed their pace. “I imagine your raven can fend for itself, but it would be better if your wolf did not. And I haven’t seen either of them at all this morning.”

Edmund and Lucy exchanged a look.

“Lex and Ferran? This is something of a sightseeing trip for them,” said Lucy. “It’s our first time in the North, and we all want to learn as much as we can. Some of us can do that here, and some of us will do it best out in the land and among the people.”

“I’m not sure your wolf will have a particularly educational time if it comes across any Northerners.”

“Ferran doesn’t eat people.” Again Lucy looked at Edmund. It was very brief, but Sansa knew enough of sibling language to notice it. After that tiny hesitation, she added: “He’s a Talking Wolf.”

“That’s even more likely to get it killed.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lucy said earnestly. “I should have thought better of it when I let them out this morning. They don’t like to be cooped up, and they’d all had so much traveling, and I felt bad. I thought maybe a frolic in the snow would help.”

“You let them out?”

“No, I did.” This was Arya, and now it was Sansa’s turn to give her a significant look. “He’ll be fine. I promise, I spent half the voyage here scaring the wits into everyone about Westeros, and how cruel and conniving and dangerous we all are.” Crunch, went Arya’s toast.

“Is that what you said.”

“Only the truth.”

Sansa looked at Lucy. “Is that what you think of us, then?”

Lucy looked like she might blush. “Of course not.”

Edmund added, “We trust your sister, but as kings and queens it’s rather our duty to make up our own minds, isn’t it?”

“Certainly,” said Sansa.

The first few days of diplomacy went swimmingly. Sansa had been prepared to run hunting parties and tours of the castle and archery competitions, if the Narnians had been bored or frivolous, but it turned out their royalty seemed perfectly content to sit in a room and begin negotiating. They asked that some of their lords and ladies be allowed to travel to nearby villages, to learn more about the land, and while Sansa privately thought this was just spying done out in the open, she acquiesced. Somehow, most of the Narnians were too courtly and polite to cause her any concern. Only Peridan, with his air of battle-hardened experience, and the older Calormen-born Archenlander, with her intelligent dark eyes, seemed to be significantly dangerous.

Their discussions were primarily about tariffs and shipping and who owned the water and what level of increased trade they might expect. It was difficult, but manageable, and Sansa would have been pleased with herself, except for two things. When she suggested a formal alliance with Narnia, Lucy and Edmund had looked at each other, and Lucy had said something that implied they were very open to it, but that it was such a large matter they intended to go into it more fully later on.

The second thing that worried Sansa was that after a few days, Edmund unofficially gave her an inventory of the gifts from High King Peter.

“Of course, we’ll give them to you officially when the banquet happens,” he said, “so it’s all in public, as these gifts are as much to the North as they are to you. But Su—we thought that it’d be more useful for you to know what they were already, so you don’t have strange bundles and barrels sitting out in your courtyard for long.”

Sansa’s suspicions about the nature of a potential Narnian alliance were much worsened once she read through the gift inventory. Pink salt from beneath one of the Stormness Mountains, orange salt from beneath another. Big earthenware jars of spices from Calormen. Salt-sugar cured pork, and dried venison, and smoked fish. Big wax-sealed rounds of hard cheeses, nets of West Calormene garlic, bags of almonds and dried fruits and dried mushrooms, barrels of soraseed oil...on and on it went. There were suits of mail and swords of Dwarfish make, and an equal number of swords of Centaur make, which would have been all right, except they were set with mole-dug gold and silver, and accompanied by finished and rough jewels and jewelry besides. Sapphires and rubies and emeralds and of course diamonds, and stones besides whose names she’d never heard of. Worst of all, there was Narnian clothing. Including several gowns, embroidered by hand.

In short, the list of foodstuffs delighted Sansa as a ruler as much as the list of goods dismayed her as a woman.

There were two Narnian kings. Edmund was polite, kind, and pleasant to talk to, but he’d made no particular attentions to her. So.

Sansa put on her cloak and went to find Arya. But Arya was absolutely nowhere to be found, and someone had last seen her riding out towards the woods with a wolf loping alongside, so Sansa gave it up and resolved to waylay her early in the morning.

Unfortunately, dawn came and breakfast with the Narnians came, once more friendly and light and meaningless, and no Arya appeared. Sansa was about to excuse herself from their morning negotiations when Arya came walking down the long hall, apple in one hand and knife in the other, shaving off the shiny red skin and eating it bit by bit.

Sansa marched down the hall and yanked Arya into a storage closet.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Peter wants a wife?” she hissed.

“He doesn’t,” said Arya.

Sansa fixed her with a look.

“It’s all got a lot of Aslan in it,” said Arya, waving her knife-holding hand in an obscure gesture. “I told you that Lucy would be better at explaining than I am.”

“You don’t even like Lucy.”

“I don’t not like Lucy, she’s just...good. She’s very good. I don’t think she’s ever done anything wrong. I don’t think she has any regrets. It’s unnerving.”

“Just tell me what’s going on.”

Arya looked up at her steadily. “They’re going to make you an offer. I think it’s a decent offer. I think they’re one of the only royal families in any world that I can eat lunch with and not want to throw it all back up. And I came all the way back because I know they’re strange, and they wouldn’t survive a day in Westeros on their own, but you should still consider it. I brought them here; that should tell you something. Now.” With a deft movement, Arya twisted out of Sansa’s grasp. “I’m going to take Ed and Rickon riding, and it’ll be just you and Lucy. Pound for pound, easy match.” She strode away.

“Am I going to be fighting her?” Sansa called after her sister. Predictably, there was no response.

Without Edmund, Lucy was just as lovely but slightly more nervous. It was clear to Sansa that the siblings didn’t often spend time apart, and on more than one occasion she’d heard one of them murmur to the other: “Peter would love that” or, “If only Susan was here.”

First, Lucy asked if Susan had read the chapter in her book about the demise of the White Witch and the return of Aslan. She had.

“And do you,” said Lucy, “remember the part about Father Christmas?”

“I think so,” said Sansa, who had in fact made so many notes on that particular page, detailing in particular the need for further research on the Pevensie gifts that the margin was as black as it was white. “Didn’t you get a wine of some sort?”

“Cordial,” said Lucy, her face lighting up. “From berries grown in the lands beyond the sun.”

“That sounds wonderful,” said Sansa. “What does it taste like?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy said ruefully, “I’ve never tried. Peter says we should keep it for emergencies, so I rarely carry it or use it. And I usually ride with the archers, so I’ve never been seriously injured.”

“Do you have it with you now?” said Sansa.

“No, this isn’t an emergency. Arya did say that it would be a little dangerous here. But then, Ed’s been in Calormen, and in Calormen they get carried around in the street by slaves. He’s used to surviving in--in new places. And I wouldn’t like to lose my bottle on the trip.”

“Or have it stolen.”

Lucy smiled. “You wouldn’t steal it, I know,” she said.

It was that irresistible smile that led Sansa to say, wryly, “The faith of House Pevensie in the trueborn honor of House Stark is a balm to my soul.”

Lucy laughed, and it was such an infectious laugh, Sansa couldn’t help but smile along.

“You’d steal it if Arya needed it, I think,” said Lucy, “or if we were threatening your country and you wanted leverage. But we’re not threatening, and if Arya ever needs it, I’ll be the first to aid, if I can.”

Despite everything, Sansa believed her. But all she said was, “Arya said it’s winter in Narnia right now too. Did you see Father Christmas this time?”

“Yes.” Lucy beamed. “He always has a trick of showing up just when the tide is about to turn. When the winter is worst, but spring is on the way. At least, that’s the way it was the first time we saw him. This second time, it’s not been winter for all of us, just Susan. And Susan is the only one of us who saw him.”

By the way Lucy settled into her chair, Sansa sensed a story coming on.

“When you say it’s only been winter for Susan…”

“We’ve had trouble with giants in the north, and to the east, the Lone Islands are giving us trouble because Calormen keeps trying to turn it. But really the worst of everything is Calormen, and Susan thinks it’s her fault.”

“Is it?”

“No, the Tisroc has always been beastly and it stands to reason that he’s got several sons as beastly as himself. Ugh, I wish I was better at telling stories. I suppose I should start at the beginning.”

Lucy took a deep breath, sorted out her thoughts, and went on.

“Susan has always been the most beautiful girl in the room, no matter how big the room or how many other girls there are. She’s a lot like you, I think.”

Sansa bit back her desire to say something very dry about that.

Lucy went on, “And of course when she came of age in Narnia, as a queen, from the family that Aslan used to vanquish the White Witch, with a sweet voice and hair down to her feet, all these princes were after her. She couldn’t seem to decide for the longest time.

“It’s not that she’s a horrible flirt, you know. She just thinks she likes men, and then she gets to know them, and then she finds out that she doesn’t. It would be harmless if they didn’t go so hard after each other at tournaments over her...anyways, Rabadash was one of the more serious men. The heir to the Tisroc of Calormen, one of our greatest trading partners and greatest threats. And he was so noble, for so long, and easy to talk to, and very good-looking, in his own way. Susan said she thought she liked him. You read about what happened after that, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” The added appendix on current Calormene-Narnian relations had been handwritten carefully into the back of the book, which was complete with several more blank pages, which led the reader to believe that story wasn’t over yet.

“Susan’s felt just terrible about it ever since. She says she doesn’t know how she could have been so deceived about Rabadash, and she wants to be married very much. There should always be humans in Narnia, you know, as Kings and Queens. Aslan likes it that way. And before, according to the books, the Queens would marry river gods and the Kings would marry dryads and wood goddesses, but we don’t really have wood goddesses anymore, and the dryads aren’t—aren’t likely to give heirs, and the only river god we know is very old and treats us like we’re his grandchildren. And she’s twenty-six and met every prince under the sun. Except Westerosi princes.”

“With honorable exception, princes are not a species known for their goodness,” said Sansa.

“Arya did say something like that, when we asked her,” said Lucy, which probably meant Arya had decried all Westerosi princes as disgusting as pigs and not half so useful. “So anyways, while Peter and Ed and I were up North dealing with giants, and Arya too, Susan went hunting for the White Stag.”

“She wanted to wish on it for a husband?”

“She didn’t say, but we could guess. Only, instead of finding the stag, she found Father Christmas. He gave her a storybook. There were many stories in it, Narnian mostly, a couple Archenlander ones and one about Telmarines. We couldn’t really tell how much was history and how much was fairy tale. Though I suppose we’re all living in a fairy tale.”

“A fairy tale?” said Sansa.

“A story that isn’t real, with lots and lots of magic,” said Lucy. “But this is real. Or it feels real.” Her voice was thoughtful.

Sansa waited patiently.

“The book was perfectly new. Printed, you know. We don’t have any printing presses in Narnia; do you have any here?”

“I don’t think I know what that is, no.”

“Well, anyways, the book was beautifully made, and obviously new. But one page was folded down, and that page marked the story of the two brides. It said in the fifth generation after King Frank and Queen Helen became the first King and Queen of Narnia, there was their descendant Swanwhite. Like Susan, she was extraordinarily beautiful, and she wanted to find a husband and have children, and those two things together had brought her and the country nothing but heartache. But a very old centaur, who had studied the moon and the stars, told her that to find what her heart desired, she must be willing to walk into the valley of the moon. So she did.”

“The moon,” said Sansa, “in the sky?” No matter how carefully or politely she said it, it was an inescapably doubtful thing to say. But she couldn’t help it.

“They had pegasuses back then. Horses with wings. Anyways, Swanwhite flew to the moon. It was very difficult, and she had to answer riddles when she got there, and one small mouse that she had saved at the beginning turned out to be—sorry, I’m taking a long time. I promise it isn’t just a fairy tale. Or, in Westerosi terms, a useless story.”

“I don’t mind,” said Sansa. Despite herself, was rather curious about the story, though she had an idea that Lucy had merely brought it up as a way to introduce Peter in a particularly good light.

Lucy went ono, “Swanwhite finally came to the heart of the valley, and in it was a deep, dry well. So she lowered herself down it—it took her eight hours—and when she was in the heart of the moon, she found a silver ring with a sigil wrought in silver and studded and diamond. She recognized it as the sigil of Nestor, a flying dove. King Nestor had only daughters, but—oh. I should have said. Nestor was the king of Atlantis. It was an island off the coast of Narnia, but it sank a long time ago. Sometimes if you see mermaids wearing gold and things, it’s because they got them from Atlantis.”

“Oh,” Sansa said. It took everything she had not to ask more about mermaids, particularly their abilities in naval combat.

“Yes, so, in any case, Swanwhite hauled herself back up the well and got on her Pegasus and said goodbye to the moon goddess and—sorry, I didn’t mention the moon goddess before. Anyways, she was very kind and very powerful. I don’t think she matters too much to the story.”

Lucy really did seem to be becoming more and more flustered, so Sansa gave a low hum by way of encouragement. Lucy took a decided breath, and then went on.

“She rode to Atlantis, and presented the King with the ring, and told him the whole story. And she half-expected to be challenged by the Queen, for she—Swanwhite, I mean—thought it was dishonorable to suggest that the moon might take Nestor from his wife and give him to Swanwhite. But it turned out that Atlantis had twice as many women as they had men, and so had created a tradition about sigil rings and wives. You see, if a woman in Atlantis were to present a family with a ring of their sigil, it meant that she was offering to become part of the family by taking their daughter to wife.

“The woman would spent one full moon to one full moon in the house of her bride-to-be’s family, for marriage then was as much about family as it was about love. And her future bride would do the same, so that they would not see each other until the wedding day, the final day, the full moon. Now in Atlantis, this was a proposal usually made when both women had known each other well for years, and the absence was meant to test their affection and will. And it was also meant to determine which woman would join which family, for without the ritual, had the two women simply married, their children’s bloodline and inheritance could be called into question. In this way, the woman who presented the head of the house with a ring of their sigil would willingly enter the house of her wife, and take her wife’s bloodline and name upon her children.”

“Swanwhite had never met Nestor’s oldest daughter; she did not even know her name. (It turned out to be Lilith.) But after all she had struggled, and all the signs she had fulfilled, she felt that she could not be wrong. She had gone in search for someone to marry and been led through a ritual that she did not even know, with exactly the right ring to win her a bride. And when she consulted the books in the halls of her father-in-law to be, she felt sure that she had been right in her choice. The role of the woman who accepted the sigil ring in the final wedding ceremony was that of the sun wife, and the role of the woman who offered that ring and became a part of her house was that of the moon wife. She stayed for the full moon, and her first sight of Lilith was when they were married.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say. She wanted to hide. She felt that this story was aimed at her, which meant that she had been seen, in some way, as a woman who wanted a wife. But she also wanted every last detail of this story. As imperfect as Lucy’s telling of it was, she didn’t want to forget a single word of it.

“Were they happy?” she found herself saying.

“The book does not say, directly. But it does say that every six years, a moon wife could, without rebuke and without retribution, leave the house of her wife and her wife’s family and return to her own. But Swanwhite never did. When she died, she and Lilith were buried together in the tombs of Lilith’s ancestors, and it is almost certain that she is lying with Lilith now, in Atlantis, under the waves. Sansa?”

“Yes,” Sansa managed to say.

“How much do you remember about the gifts Father Christmas brings?”

“They’re sometimes magical, but not always,” Sansa said. “As far as is known, if cared for, they never crumble or rust. They are always meant only to be used by the person who they are given to. And there is always only two of them.”

“That’s right.”

“What was the second gift?” said Sansa, though by the look in Lucy’s eyes, she already knew.

Lucy put a ring on the table. It was finely wrought and studded with one diamond, the unblinking eye in the head of a silver wolf.

In the hour that followed, Lucy patiently confirmed everything about the proposed marriage alliance. Sansa, for her part, found herself growing colder and more formal, because she couldn’t express her frustration, could barely acknowledge her anxiety even to herself. A wife. To have. A wife from a seemingly sane royal family, internationally famed for her beauty, who was willingly offering to join House Stark in the hopes of love, who courted Sansa like a foreign king would have, with splendid gifts and old rituals. It was too good. And then it became even worse.

“You said,” Sansa said, “that the children of the moon wife would carry on the bloodline and name of her wife’s house. But how could she have children?”

“There was sometimes adoption in Atlantis, but also, the Atlantean sigil rings were said to have magical power. Very often, nine months after the wedding, one of the wives would become pregnant. Very rarely, they would become repeatedly pregnant. Though the second case is more of a question about different kinds of Atlantean women, rather than rings.”

“They must have paid some man to impregnate them,” said Sansa, and was immediately angry with herself. ‘Must have’ was not nearly as diplomatic as ‘perhaps they’ would have been. She was in over her head. It was a temptation to recklessness. A wife and children. Staying in Winterfell for the rest of her life—

“That’s why Queen Susan didn’t come,” she said. “I understood why High King Peter wouldn’t, with border threats, especially from the North.”

“Yes,” said Lucy, “Su is ever so much better at this diplomacy business than I am. It’s not that diplomacy is lying, it’s just that—she can put things better than I can. She’d have told Swanwhite’s story so well that it could make you cry.”

It could already make Sansa cry, but she chose to ignore that. “So, in this proposed alliance, I would go to Narnia for a month? And she would come here. And she'd become...” It felt strange to say it. "My wife."

“Yes,” said Lucy.

Arya returned to her room quite late at night, when the moon was high in the sky. (And, Sansa had noticed, it was a little bigger than a half-moon. If she went with the Narnian king and queen—which of course she wouldn’t—she might very well arrive in their country under a full moon.)

Sansa was sitting on Arya’s bed, with a mug of honeyed tea and the Narnian book.

“I have it figured out,” she said, as soon as Arya shut the door.

“You’re sure about that?”

“She’s pregnant.”

“Lucy? Can’t be.”

“Susan. It explains everything. She’ll use her month here to gain a foothold of power, and I’ll be—injured or bewitched or something while I’m in Narnia—and then she’ll marry me. The ring fairy tale will be the excuse—”

“Fairy tale?”

“It’s what Lucy calls a made-up magical story that sounds good.”

“Mm.”

“And then she’ll come here and pass off her bastard child as mine, and try to influence Winterfell, and maybe take it for herself. The Narnian ships are most often spotted coming from the northern parts of the Narrow Sea, so the North is the most important territory for her to have, to protect the seas near the spot where they pass into Narnian waters. It’s a matter of geography. If ships could pass through Narnia in the Western Sea, she’d have asked Yara Greyjoy. That’s all it is.”

“She’d need a kraken ring for that.”

“You can’t believe that story about Father Christmas. Didn’t you see the chainmail on the armor they wear? Their dwarvish smiths—if they have dwarves, and aren’t saying that to make them seem more magical—have more than enough skill to make a ring like that themselves.”

“How could she have known to tell the smiths to make a wolf?”

“Talking to you.”

“Sansa, I didn’t tell them my real name until we got on the ship to come here. I always tell people I’m someone else. Peter met me when I was headed to explore their North, and we killed giants together, and it was on the way back to Cair Paravel, their capitol, that we met Susan. And when she showed us the ring she’d just gotten, she thought I was a commoner named Aren.”

Sansa examined her sister, slowly. She allowed the flicker of doubt in her mind to suggest that Arya was in on some conspiracy with the Narnians, but then, she knew her sister. She knew better.

“You believe all this,” Sansa said.

“Not all of it.”

“What part don’t you believe?”

“I don’t think Swanwhite rode a horse with wings to the moon.”

“But you believe Susan met a minor Narnian god while hunting in the woods for a magical wish-granting stag, and that this god gave her two gifts that just so happened to point her in my direction on the same day that she met you. Arya, she could’ve heard about House Stark from someone else. They have Talking Animals; they probably have spies everywhere. Maybe she knew who you were. Maybe Peter did. He could have sent a messenger—”

“Sansa, I met him. Not Peter. Their winter god. It took me ten days to track him down. Look.” Arya reached under her bed and pulled out a long knife, as dark and dragonglass and as smoothly crafted as steel. The pommel, of course, was a wolf.

“That’s just a pretty weapon.”

Arya put the dagger back under the bed, and then reached under her pillow, producing an identical dagger.

“Beautiful,” said Sansa, in a voice that was anything but admiring.

“Try to pick it up,” said Arya.

“What, does the handle bite?”

“Just—”

With a put-upon sigh, Sansa reached under Arya’s pillow, finding nothing. “So you’ve learned sleight of hand,” she said.

“No. I can hide it anywhere, and it disappears. I can reach anywhere and find it. I just can’t see it with my own eyes when I hide it or produce it.”

“Close your eyes and reach for it, then.”

Arya looked disgusted.

“Did you seriously think you could take me in with that kind of trick?”

“It’s not a trick, I’m just angry I didn’t think of that. The Christmas man told me had to reach for it in places I couldn’t see. Makes me feel stupid that I didn’t think of this beore.” She closed her eyes, and reached out her right hand. One second that hand was empty, and the next, it held a knife. Sansa knew she hadn’t so much as blinked. The knife had simply appeared.

“All right,” said Sansa warily.

“I’m never unarmed.” Arya sounded pleased with herself. And if Sansa trusted the blade, this was undoubtedly what she’d get Arya as a present, if she could.

“What was your second gift?”

Arya hesitated.

“Don’t tell me it was a ring.”

“It was a drink. Dark, darker than coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“It’s a Calormene drink. I’ll explain later. It was sweet, though, and it didn’t taste like it would get me drunk. He called it the Draught of Forgetfulness.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any use in asking you what you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget anything,” said Arya. “I still have all the old bad memories. It’s just that I don’t feel them anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I remember some of the things that happened to me, or that I did. Like—I can remember being taken in by a kind actress, in King’s Landing, and watching her throat get slit. I remember her face, and who killed her, and where I was, and that it was sunny that day. But it doesn’t feel the same, anymore. It’s the difference between having an open wound and a scar.”

“All your bad memories?”

“Are you asking about something in particular?”

“When they killed our father.”

“No,” said Arya. “That one feels the same. I didn’t touch it. Feeling nothing about that would be…”

“Yes,” said Sansa.

Arya sat beside her on the bed and closed her eyes, grabbing and letting go of the air, flicking the dagger in and out of existence.

“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” Sansa said, finally.

“It’s their proposal to make.”

“No, seriously.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was trying to persuade you.”

“You did persuade me. In the closet. You told me I should accept the offer.”

“Ah, that’s not the same. That’s not like King’s Landing persuasion. No art in it. That’s just me saying something obvious. I don’t plan on ever completely trying to persuade you of anything, in the way a diplomat or a spy or a queen would.”

“Why’s that?”

“We’d probably kill each other.”

“Mm.”

After a while, Sansa said: “I still think she’s pregnant.”

“I’ve seen her drink and ride. I’ve watched her eat fish at breakfast and not vomit. I’ve actually never seen her be sick or heard of her being sick, and I spent a good two months in Narnia and Archenland.”

“Maybe she doesn’t get the morning troubles, and maybe she’s a careless mother.”

“Sansa,” said Arya. Flick when the dagger, into existence. Flick it went again, out.

Sansa groaned.

The next day, she told Lucy and Edmund that she needed more time to think on the proposal. Neither of them seemed surprised with that, and they left her to negotiate with Lady Aravis about diplomatic relations between Winterfell and Archenland.

Lady Aravis, though her own age, spoke with an imperious pride that might, on another occasion, have been appealing. However, Sansa was stewing in her own frustration just then, and Aravis paired pride with a very flowery kind of language that irritated her, especially since she’d heard Aravis talking to Arya in quite different, loose language.

Plus, Aravis’s demands were exacting, and she offered very little in return. She wanted a treaty with the North that promised that if either were attacked, the other would come to its aid; and Sansa, who had never agreed to such a pact with any country and never intended to, coldly and courteously pointed out that the distance by sea between the two countries must make such a pact very difficult to keep, especially since the North got so little accurate news of Narnian and Archenlander goings-on. Aravis then wanted an agreement on immigration, and Sansa amused herself for half an hour by talking it over with a large part of her mind absent. But then she discovered that Aravis wasn’t prepared to make equal assurances of Northern immigration in return and, already being in a poor mood, nearly lost her temper. What incentive could she possibly have to such an agreement?

Aravis pointed out that Archenland had quite a small population and would be overwhelmed if Northerners decided to immigrate in any large numbers. Sansa pointed out that the Archenlanders were not a particularly seafaring people and that they’d have little reason to settle in a place as unfamiliar and inhospitable as the North anyway. They both, haughtily, agreed to very basic terms of friendliness between their two nations, and nothing more.

Then Sansa begged pardon for a moment to go check up on some small matters with her guardsmen, walked up to her room, and went to yell into her pillow about the absolute uselessness of it all. She had been thinking of nothing but the Narnian queen for nearly a whole day now and had made no progress whatsoever.

When she descended, she’d calmed down considerably and also realized that she was taking it all more personally than she likely should. Aravis wanted to see if she could get unfair concessions, and found that she couldn’t. Sansa couldn’t fault her for trying. And so, over lunch, she made genuine inquiries into Archenlander culture, and found that Aravis had a talent for telling stories; she had apparently been trained, as all Calormen highborn ladies were, in it as a particular art.

Somehow, this led into conversation about what stories from Calormene culture and Archenlander culture Aravis had memorized. Did she know any Narnian ones? Yes. Did she know any from the very early dynasties? Yes. Sansa had heard that the story of Swanwhite’s marriage, in particular, was very lovely.

Aravis told her the story in all its detail. It took hours, and she was hardly even to the point of Swanwhite finding the well on the moon when the two of them were interrupted by Sansa’s head guardsman, Dirk. Dirk wasn’t much good at subtlety.

“There’s a criminal,” he said. “We need your judgment.”

Sansa swallowed.

“Shall I bring out the block, my queen?”

“No,” said Sansa at once. “We do not yet know the crime.”

The crime, it turned out, was enough to make her want to cut off the man’s head herself. She couldn’t do it, of course, no matter what her father had said. It would be too cruel; she couldn’t swing a sword well enough to do it cleanly. Though, when a man broke his own wife’s arm in two places, she had to ask herself whether a clean death was really what he deserved.

The wife’s brother was doing most of the talking, bringing up the many previous times that this man had lost his temper (usually against his wife, rarely against anyone else, sometimes against animals). It didn’t help, Sansa thought irritably, that he was a relatively prosperous and influential trader and part-owner of a couple taverns. The law on domestic matters was convoluted at best and nonexistent at worst, depending on one’s interpretation, and she didn’t want to be seen letting a rich man talk her into doing his will, even when, as in this case, she was rather on that rich man’s side.

Though none of the Narnians were officially there, Sansa was acutely aware of a rather large, tawny hunting dog that was lingering at the edge of the crowd that had gathered.

For a moment, all the implications swirled in her head. Already she had been accused more than once of taking the side of women too often. She had been accused of taking the side of the wealthy too often, or not enough, or of traders versus landowners and vice versa. She had been accused of leniency as a woman, with a soft heart, and harshness as a woman with anger. And besides that the law was of very, very little help, and she hadn’t slept well that night, and the man himself was an unrepentant horror with beady little black eyes.

And then, as she murmured with Maester Wolkan, confirming what bits of the law applied, things she already knew, she saw out of thee corner of her eye that the rich tradesman brother was darting forward into the crowd, had caught a young boy, was hustling him away. And the man in irons was shouting after for his son.

Suddenly the answer was very simple. The law was weak in language, so the law was her word; she was the law. And she didn’t want that man near his wife and son, and she didn’t want the son to see his father die, either. She knew what she wanted to do, and she found some small comfort in thinking it was what her father would have done, too.

“He can keep his head,” she said. “But he must be taken to the Wall.”

Later, she returned to Aravis. Perhaps Aravis had heard of the verdict and approved, or perhaps lunch mellowed her; in any case, the two got on a little better. Aravis finished retelling the story of Swanwhite, in luxurious detail, and it was somehow frightening as much as it was arresting, but it also made Sansa hungry to hear it all over again. In any case, after that, they negotiated a small and provisional trade deal to encourage trade between their nations provided that spring came as scheduled by the maesters. And Sansa dreamt that night of winged horses.

The next day was the day of Sansa’s weekly council, and in the usual meeting she held with her advisors before she held court publicly, she told them about the marriage offer. All of them she respected, but none of them were rounded enough for her to respect every facet of their opinion. Dirk, for instance, she respected for his two abilities: his instinct for the general feeling and rumors of her subjects, and his ability to kill. She had, however, no high estimation of his diplomatic opinions. On the other hand, Maester Wolkan she respected for his breadth of knowledge and cunning, but she didn’t much value his loyalty or sense of morality. And when it came to Bessa, the elderly maid who had helped Sansa, Theon, and Rickon escape from Ramsay’s clutches so long ago, Sansa respected her honesty, kindness, and cultural knowledge of the North, while knowing that her grasp on kingdom-wide logistics was lacking. So it was with every one of her half-dozen other advisors. They made a patchwork, none of them giving complete advice on their own.

From their reaction, she gathered a few important points.

First, the Narnians were well-liked, but shallowly. The North had a long memory, and its people were slow to warm to foreigners, especially foreigners with magic animals. No amount of gifts would change that. Perhaps, if it brought the North some great advantage, people would not mind Sansa marrying a foreigner. After all, the Starks were not Targaryens. They had to look abroad for new blood. They didn’t often look quite so far abroad Narnia, but that could be talked over cleverly to say that Sansa was avoiding being unduly influenced by nearby Westerosi nations.

Second, Susan being a queen would not come as particularly likely to cause her trouble. The Old Gods had nothing against women being together, and it was a frequent occurrence that two women lived together, though nobody much liked to talk about it in the course of common conversation. The main causes which had prevented it becoming more common among royalty were: first of all, a majority of royal women weren’t interested in such a thing; second of all, there was no precedent about which wife would join the other in their kingdom; and third of all, there would be no heir in it. In the system of moon wife and sun wife, if the rings could be trusted, all these objections would vanish. And it would rather give Sansa distinction of having that position of sun wife, the stronger position.

Third, Sansa could do this if she liked, but she would have to throw all her weight behind it, and come out right. She could not afford to be wrong twice. If in her absence, it turned out that her plans were inadequate for the provision of the country, or they were attacked and unable to defend themselves, or if her new queen became detested, or if neither of them became pregnant, or if undue foreign influence was sensed, or if, in short, any particularly catastrophic thing happened which could be blamed on her marriage, it could very well wipe out her good record of four long winter years, and put her back on uneven footing with her own people, and then she’d have to win them all over again. That is, if some faction didn’t start agitating on Rickon’s behalf, with the general idea that a man wouldn’t have made the same mistake.

Sansa took all this in, carefully navigating the conversation in such a way that she couldn’t creditably be accused of having already made up her own mind. (It helped that she truly hadn’t.)

Against the wishes of the Narnian royalty (well, against Edmund’s wishes; Lucy was easily enough persuadable on most matters), Sansa declared this offer of marriage at the public council. She did it after she shared what news she had, including news about greater unrest among the Faith of the Seven down south, but before she opened the floor to petitions from her subjects (who often liked to throw in their opinions about royal matters along with their requests). She was careful to present it as neutrally as she could, enumerating its potential advantages and drawbacks, but even the timing of the announcement itself was slightly slanted. For she knew if she had waited to announce the marriage proposal until after the feast, with all the Narnian gifts presented then, that people would be much more inclined to think warmly of the Narnians, which of course was just what the Narnians intended. Sansa didn’t like that. It was, she felt, a sort of bribery, and one that she wouldn’t allow.

The feast itself went very well, although Sansa felt, the entire time, there was only one person she wanted to see. But that person didn't tend to enjoy large social functions.

As far as advisors went, Arya couldn’t be beat. She toyed with her dagger, flourishing it or tossing it or blinking it in and out of existence that would’ve given Catelyn heart palptitations had she been alive to see it. Sometimes, she made one or two pointed little questions. But mostly, she listened. And, since Sansa was convinced that she had all the information she could expect to get on the subject, listening was what she most needed from Arya.

“The worst that could happen,” Sansa said, “would be a conquest. They’d use me as hostage, or as cover for an attack. They know everything there is to know about Winterfell’s defenses now, and with their Talking Animals they could get in easily. They know we’re independent. They know the other kingdoms are still resentful that we gained independence, and wouldn’t lift a finger to help.”

Arya scoffed. “They don’t have a large enough army to hold even a quarter of the North.”

“Maybe they’re ambitious. Or very worried about protecting the sea entrance to Narnia.”

“They couldn’t even take Winterfell.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because,” said Arya, “I’ll be here.”

“You can’t fight a dragon.”

“I could, but they don’t have dragons. They only have gryphons, and I could fight a gryphon, easy. An arrow through the eye. I’ve taken down larger than that before.”

“Are you ever going to get over killing that giant?”

“No.”

Sansa sighed. In any other circumstance, she’d rejoice in sparring with her sister, but just now, she had a splitting headache.

“You’re overestimating their will to conquer, too. They’re very religious and they don’t like wars of conquest. The only time they’ve ever done it was to secure the Lone Islands, and they only did that was to prevent the Lone Islands from further enslaving Talking Animals and selling them down to Calormen.”

“How large are the Lone Islands?”

“Nothing compared to us. A couple cities, a few villages. One of the islands is just sheep.”

Sansa considered this. Then: “I don’t want to rely on their goodness.”

“Then don’t. Rely on their sense of self-preservation. They know they don’t have the population to wage war on us.”

Sansa stared into the fire for several minutes, while Arya, becoming bored with her one dagger, draw another from a hidden sheath in her boot and began tossing and catching both in synchronized silver arcs.

“Then the worst thing they could do is attempt intrigue. Perhaps impregnate me or force me into marriage on their land. Do you think, with their magic, they could take my face the way you’ve taken other faces?”

Arya didn’t stop tossing her daggers, but she did frown just a little. “I hadn’t thought of it.”

“Then how will you know it’s me, when I come back?”

“I’ll know.”

“Perhaps they’ll have tortured me, and made me tell them everything I know, before they take my face.”

Arya laughed.

“Arya!”

“They wouldn’t pull the wings off a horsefly. But even if they did all those things, I would know it wasn’t you at once. And then I’d kill all of them, and tear down Cair Paravel and throw it into the sea, and salt Narnia.”

“That’s very touching,” said Sansa, “but it wouldn’t bring me back, and it wouldn’t give the North a decent ruler.”

“You don’t think I’d be a decent ruler?”

Now it was Sansa’s turn to laugh. Arya, smiling a little, produced a third dagger from fuck knew where, and ended up juggling all three. Sansa laughed harder, till her sides ached and her eyes had teared up.

“There’s something wrong with it,” she finally said, when she’d gotten ahold of herself again. “They’re too honest. They’re not asking for more than they want, and then meeting in the middle. Being a moon wife is a rotten deal, possibly worse than being a regular wife to a regular king. Their family is tight, tighter than ours was when we were children. You can see it in the way they speak, in the way they look at each other. And yet she’d leave them all behind.”

“They’re very religious.”

“Family is more than religion.”

“What would Septa Mordane say?”

“Something about my stitches, probably. Come on, Arya, don’t you think it’s suspicious?”

“Possibly,” said Arya. “But they are terribly honest people. It’s not their fault they’re like that. It’s their geography. They haven’t had a proper war from north or west or south or east, because all they have to the north is giants, and all they have to west is uncivilized, and all they have to the south is protected by a desert, and all they have to the east is sea. And the one war they did have was mostly done by their lion god. They’re not used to humans.”

“But they are humans, themselves. They’re not stupid. They have more in them than this. There’s something I’m not seeing.”

“Then go to Narnia and find it.”

Sansa paused, and then said: “I’m not like you.”

“Insightful.”

“No, really. I’m no adventurer. I have no desire to step foot outside the North ever again. I can survive, but I don’t like it. It’s not where my strength lies, escaping and riding about and killing people.”

“And stealing people’s faces,” Arya said. “You forgot that part.”

“Sorry. I know you don’t do it anymore. The killing people.”

“Unless I have to.”

“The last time I left, everything changed, and everyone got hurt, and most of us died.”

“And we got Northern independence, and the Lannisters killed, and now Bran’s on the throne and you’ve been having the time of your life with your little notebooks.”

“Our parents are dead.”

“But they’d be pleased with the results.”

“Pleased with Rob’s throat slit, his unborn child killed? Pleased with Rickon voiceless, and Bran soulless?”

“There’s a reason royalty likes to have multiple children. You don’t expect all of them to make it.”

“Fucking hell.” Sansa buried her face in her hands.

“Listen,” said Arya, in an altered voice. “Father’s mistake was that he went south for honor, and he did everything after that too honestly and too honorably, and he was just trying to help a friend. We’ve learned better. We know how to cut throats now, and it’s from behind. Right?”

Sansa nodded.

“And I don’t want to see you marry fucking Robyn Arryn.”

Sansa looked up sharply. “How did you know?”

Arya scoffed. “Anyone could have guessed it. You’re Queen in the North, beautiful, and powerful, and he’s a spoilt brat of a boy. Of course he thinks he should have you. As do all the rest of them. And each worse than the next. I know how your mind works. If you had a better choice in mind, you’d have named him by now.”

“Yeah.” Sansa felt absolutely exhausted.

It was a very simple problem. She needed an heir. She could get it from Narnia or from Westeros. In Westeros, she could get it from one of the smallfolk or from a noble. Smallfolk wouldn’t do. Even if she managed the uproar over her marriage, her heir would have to deal with being considered not-quite-enough all their life. She’d seen what being a bastard had done for Jon, growing up. It wasn’t much better, having a child by a smallfolk. And for nobles, well.

Edmure Tully’s son, Orland, was still so young that she called him Orly and he called her Cousin Sansa. The last time she’d seen him, she’d delighted him with the gift of a set of carved wooden soldiers. By the time Orland was old enough to contemplate marriage, she’d be old enough to make childbirth dangerous. And while Edmure had reportedly taken a little too well to drinking, Edmure’s wife Roslin was by all reports both very healthy and very quiet. Sansa was able to confirm this for herself when they met, and very little else. Roslin’s very quietness made it difficult to understand her thoughts. Sansa didn’t like that. Living in the same house as a quiet mother-in-law whose entire bloodline had been wiped out by Sansa’s sister would be difficult; keeping her own children alive in such a house might be impossible. If only Roslin had been visibly stupid, and Orly three or four years older, Sansa might have waited and proposed it, but as things stood, House Tully was out of the question.

Bronn had by far the most rich and powerful of the Seven Kingdoms, save for the Crownlands, but Bronn had married the prettiest girl of royal blood that he could find, who immediately turned around and made his life merry hell. There were rumors of public yelling matches, and public sex, and various other things that made Bronn’s bachelor days look tame in comparison. According to Tyrion, Bronn seemed unsure whether he very much enjoyed this state of affairs, or whether he was exhausted by it. Possibly both.

As for Tyrion himself, he simply wasn’t stupid enough. Sansa couldn’t manage him, only spar with him, which would make their marriage draining. And beyond that, she had serious reservations about his ability to have children; despite his many years of indiscretion and current position of wealth and power, no woman had yet turned up with a bastard, making claims.

Yara was still as happy in a brothel as Tyrion had once been, and she appeared to have no concerns about marriage. If Sansa could’ve had a child with her, that would’ve been easiest; she liked, though she did not trust, Yara’s easy swagger and confident command. They could have kept ruling their separate kingdoms, since neither of them had claim of husband. And Sansa might not half mind her wifely obligations if it was Yara grinning up at her...except that, again, there was no baby Stark to be had in it. So. Back to the actual task at hand. Yes.

Gendry might have been her best opportunity, and three years ago, he had offered. She was beautiful, he’d said, and she was capable and he needed someone who knew how lordship worked and he’d treat her well and she could send some of her younger children to live with their uncle in Winterfell. Also, Arya trusted her, which meant he was the only highborn lady he knew that was worth marrying. Which was likely all true. But Sansa couldn’t help but think of what Arya’s reaction would be. Not in words, or actions, because Arya had laid no official claim to Gendry and had in fact never spoken about him to Sansa. But still, Sansa felt sure that if Arya did ever come back to Westeros, the marriage would make things strange between them.

So she’d put Gendry off, saying she had enough trouble learning the management of her own kingdom, and within the month he’d declared his betrothal to another lady. Sansa, slightly concerned, had made a point of asking after the woman when next she met Tyrion, and was comforted by his assessment of the woman as “beautiful, sensible, loyal, and boring.” In other words, not a wife who’d get him killed and quite able to make an affectionate, useful marriage. For Arya’s sake, Sansa was glad of that, but now, with her options dwindling, she wondered if she’d made the right choice in turning him down.

She had never been asked to marry by the Dornish prince, Nymaron, and rumor had it that no other woman ever had or would. But she felt she could’ve persuaded him into a satisfactory arrangement (as she felt she could persuade nearly any man into a satisfactory arrangement). Unfortunately, Dorne was the kingdom whose politics and culture she understood least, and besides, she knew her own people. She’d heard the complaints of Daenerys’s Unsullied and khalasar and whether or not it was just (and it wasn’t), she knew better than to bring brown children to the take the Stark seat in Winterfell. Trying to ensure smooth succession and loyalty under those circumstances would be like fighting with her arm tied behind her back, and Sansa only liked lopsided fights if she was the one with the advantage.

So. The Vale. It brought back bad memories, but it wasn’t as far from the North as most kingdoms. Sansa felt fully capable of managing its lord, repugnant as he was. She wanted her children to have siblings, so with hearty effort on her part, she could have perhaps three in three or four years, and then go back to Winterfell. Starks belonged in Winterfell. Her children belonged in Winterfell. Likely Robin wouldn’t like it, but Sansa could manage her own escape. Possibly she could kill him beforehand. She’d want to, by then.

Three years away, with the best council she could provide. Would the North survive that? Would Rickon?

"We'll be fine," said Arya.

Sansa started.

"You didn't say anything," said Arya, reading her face. "But I know. I've always known you were going to go. It's why I came back."

A long silence stretched between them.

“How did you know I would go with them?” Sansa said, at last.

Arya's answer was swift. “When did you escape from Ramsay?”

“Winter, six years ago.”

“And when did you convince Jon to come back and fight him?”

“Winter, six years ago. So?”

“You’ve never been a coward.”

Sansa looked at Arya. Her throat was thick.

Arya looked away. “You have been ridiculous, and stupid, and vain, and you still coddle Rickon too much, and—"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Sansa rose from her chair, an itinerary and a packing list and a set of conditions all already beginning to form in her mind.

"Just so you know," she said. "You too."

That night, she dreamt of a white stag and a woman at her side, the both of them chasing it as hard as they could, horses shouldering their way through thick underbrush and leaping streams. She woke before the stag could be lost. She woke before the stag could be caught.

**Author's Note:**

> I did too much worldbuilding and now I don't think there's enough marriage content, so I'm gonna add another part before reveals. I'm very sorry.
> 
> EDIT: So that was a terrible lie, and I'm sorry again, but this story is now a part of the 2020 WIP Big Bang, so you can expect to have it finished and published before end of September 2020. Not to be like, "like and subscribe!" but...it wouldn't hurt?


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